" What an age of innocence it was, and how beautiful and free"

Gerald Murphy in a letter to Archibald Macleish

"Hugh Collins: Miss Fisher has gone on holiday again, sir.

Jack Robinson: Ah… anyone dead yet?

Hugh Collins: Only one so far, sir."

Death Under The Mistletoe, 2x13, Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries


I

Being still didn't come easily to Phryne but, maybe because she had moved around so much over the past weeks, she deeply appreciated the comfort of sitting on that wicker chaise.

She had even fallen asleep, she gathered when she opened her eyes and saw no one around her but could hear the sound of voices coming from further down and noticed that the book she had once held was now on the floor.

Breathing in the pleasant breeze, scented with a mixture of sea salt with the lavender, thyme, and rosemary in the kitchen garden, and the roses and jasmine around the house, she sat back in the plush beige pillows for a moment and arranged the strap of her swimsuit before getting up and approaching the balustrade facing the Mediterranean.

Turquoise waves slithered forward and back through the gaps between the rocks below. Nature had polished the basalt blocks so diligently over the centuries, men had had to employ little effort to turn them into sundecks and diving boards, now used by the home owners and their guests.

In that moment, people were picking up their belongings to come back to the house. After some hours laying in the sun, most of their skins had reddened or tanned since she had last seen them.

Nola paused folding a towel and waved at her, smiling from under the brim of her elegant black straw hat.

Phryne smiled and waved back. She had missed her friend while in Melbourne, so it was likely she would have said yes to any invitation Nola might have made, even if it didn't include some weeks away from London (and her newly reunited parents) at a mansion in the French Riviera.

They had met at Roedean, to where Nola's father had sent her despite its affiliation with the Church of England to give her not only the type of education he hadn't been able to get as the son of an Irish immigrant, but also something that would fill her mind and make her stand out from the array of American heiresses of tremendous fortunes made through everyday common items, hosiery and knitted goods in their case. Nevertheless, his intentions had been somewhat thwarted by their meeting. Phryne and Nola were smart and their brightness showed in class, which had helped them get along at first, but they had also bonded over a common tendency for mischief, and strengthened their friendship even more when they were reunited in Paris after the war, in the wake of intermittent meetings.

Some people derided Miss Murrow as an idle socialite from Allentown, Pennsylvania who did little less than shuttling between America and Europe for parties and shopping but she was the one straightening Elliott enough so he would get his act together and write and publish short-stories and books with a consistency he probably wouldn't be able to manage by himself otherwise. Even if she did take great pleasure in being part of the smart artistic sets in New York, London or Paris and in attending readings, exhibitions, plays, and dinners, she also didn't mind standing in the shadows editing his manuscripts.

Elliott himself had his back turned to Miss Fisher but upon seeing his younger sister's gesture, he rotated and greeted Phryne, serpentine smoke rising from the cigarette in his mouth and which almost fell off his lips when he smiled.

Phryne waved towards him as well and decided to wait from them to come up. Dinner wasn't very far away; even if that party had been together for nearly two weeks, visitors weren't expected and a casual ambiance seemed to rule the house, it didn't make it less of an affair.

Perhaps because night-time was her favourite time of the day, she had always liked the transition from afternoon to evening, particularly when she got to live it in such a breath-taking scenario: the sea spilt in front of her was impressive, but it was difficult to overlook the luxuriating indigenous stone pine woods and other thick vegetation in which the house was nested and that harboured flocks of chaffinches which scored the inception of twilight so perfectly as they settled for the night.

The place she was standing on was different from what it had once been, but Phryne could still see why Una and William had felt so drawn to the ruins they had found during one summery afternoon of 1923 while driving around after deciding to see where a cracked and fainted road sign reading 'Chateau Ondine' would lead. They had loved its location and charm tremendously and had gone through a great deal of trouble and expense to locate its owners (a task complicated by a sequence of heirs killed in the war), buy it, and refurbish it thoroughly for two years, staying at the Hotel Du Cap as they supervised the works during the Summer and when they came down from Paris once a month, convincing the owner to open it especially for those occasions. Yet, for the slight remembrance of such structure, chiefly in the round tower at one end where the hall and the round staircase were located and the two large fireplaces that were rarely lit because the weather didn't call for it that often, there wasn't much of the original chateau left except for the name. Yet, it had felt like such part of the identity and the myth of the house, the Montgomerys had chosen to keep it nevertheless. Now it was a mostly rectangular beige stone building with large windows, shutters painted in light seafoam green, and fitted with iron balconettes on the second floor. At ground level, two French doors led to the terrace and a string of celling-high sash windows overlooked the well-kept garden ahead, the pool on the left, and, beyond all, a sea so intensely blue it seemed like painted glass instead of the actual landscape.

Sometimes, in these hours, Phryne found herself missing St. Kilda and, more acutely, all the people she had left behind, but it didn't prevent her from looking forward to cocktails and dinner and maybe even a trip to the nearby Casino or to Cannes', about half an hour away.

Nola headed the procession coming up the wooden stairs from the rocks, apparently not really caring if people were lagging behind her now, even if she had patiently waited for them before.

«Hello there», she said to Phryne when she got to the top step. «The water was absolutely swell, but I hope you don't mind I didn't wake you. You were sleeping so peacefully everyone agreed it would be a crime to disturb you», she continued with a theatrical shrug that shook her cobalt beach pyjamas and a playful glint in her eyes. Considering Nola's pale skin, dark brown hair, and light eyes, they could almost pass as cousins at least, if not sisters.

«Fear not, dear friend. You shall be forgiven this time», replied Phryne, with a smile, taking off her sunglasses. «I can't promise to be this magnanimous in the next occasion though».

However, she had to acknowledge she regretted not having joined them as soon as she had woken up. As self-indulgent as she liked to be sometimes, Phryne didn't have the patience to lay in the sun and preferred to keep herself under one of the large parasols by the pool but she loved to sea bathe, to feel invigorated by the water on her muscles and transported to a different world when she dipped her head.

«Have you gotten mellow in Australia?» said a deep baritone man's voice coming from behind them.

«Never», Phryne said, turning around.

«What a comfort knowing it hasn't changed. I don't think I could endure living in a world where Phryne Fisher went by the rules.»

«That's quite a compliment. No wonder people shower you in praise», Phryne said, raising her eyes. Elliott was tall and rather fit. She had seen him swim nearly every day in the Mediterranean since she had arrived in the Riviera and wondered if he still went at least once a week to the Piscine Chateau Landon when in Paris or, when in New York, to the pool in the basement of the Woolworth Building, courtesy of a university friend who worked there. He also practiced calisthenics ('the only good thing to come out of being in the army', as he said) every morning; when he wasn't too hung over to do so, that was.

With some wet strands of his dark hair failing onto his forehead and a towel slung across his shoulders, he looked somewhat boyish despite his hardened features, an impression deepened by the contrast between his green eyes and his tanned skin.

«Come on, children, don't spar», Nola said. «And it's not fair – I stand in the sun for two minutes and I look like a shrimp. This man ends up looking like a photogenic local. You're my own brother, damn it!», she added after a small pause, looking at Elliott and shaking her head. «And shouldn't you put some cream on that?», she said caringly, pointing at his nose.

« It does hurt a little», he acknowledged, «so, ladies, if you don't mind...», Elliott said, with a slight bow of his head and the raise of his cigarette case, before heading inside and walking away until he was little less than a 'T' rendered in white and blue in the distance.

«Don't you get tired of mothering him?», Phryne asked her friend, half-mockingly, half-seriously.

«Eh, sometimes», she replied, but both knew that things weren't that simple.

«Family?», said Phryne as they climbed the three steps of the large stone terrace and made their way into the house as well.

«I think my father likes to say 'my son, the acclaimed novelist, Elliott Murrow', but there's work and there's work, if you get what I mean, particularly when my grandfather seems very keen on frequently reminding us all that he still hasn't seen any result of all the money put into Yale. I honestly don't know why everyone is so surprised since Elliott has always said he wanted to be a writer», Nola said with a shrug as she removed her hat once they reached the sitting room.

«Your grandfather?», Phryne realised that it was an odd thing to say, but she didn't think he would still be alive.

«Haven't you heard? He'll be the first person to be 1 million years old.»

«I'm sorry to know. About the strained relationship, I mean», offered Phryne, the similarities to her own situation not far away from her mind. «How about you?»

«I don't care about it, to be honest. They have their lives, we have ours. It's awkward if we meet for Christmas but that's it. I could have a university-oriented education but I'm obviously failing nowadays by not getting a husband and a ranch of children. But if failing mean living in Paris and meeting exciting people, that I'm planning on failing for as long as I can and I couldn't be any happier».

«It sounds like the most wonderful plan and I couldn't endorse it more even if I wanted to.»

Nola smiled and Phryne followed her example, but she pondered on how much her friend seemed to leave out of her letters, even if this realisation wasn't something completely unexpected. They trusted each other but their confidences tended to come out in bursts like that instead of through conversations when they caught up on everything they had done ever since they had last seen each other.

«We better go change though. Una does take dinnertime very seriously», said Nola back in her regular tone of voice.

«Yes, it's best, but you know you can count on me, don't you?», Phryne said, putting one hand on Nola's arm.

« I do», she replied with a nod, and covering Phryne's hand with hers. «And you know it's a two way street, right?»

xxx

Phryne's room was spacious and light, and facing the woods instead of the sea didn't make it less comfortable or charming.

It was painted in white and its stone floor was mostly covered by a large Persian Tabriz rug featuring interlacing bands in tan and beige tones. Three silk panels with motifs in red, yellow, green, white, and blue adorned the wall behind the bed. They reminded Phryne of the Leon Bakst's illustrations she had once seen depicting the costumes for the Bacchantes in the 'Narcisse' production put on the stage by the Ballet Russes: an alluring combination of floral and swirling patterns in bold colours that she would bet had appealed to Una exactly for that, given that she was a former dancer and had taken part in the work developed by Diaghilev and his collaborators.

Maybe as a counterpoint to all the colour, the bed had a beech wood frame of simple lines and minimal treatment and was fitted with white linens that were as extremely appealing and comfortable as they looked. A small light blue chaise had been placed in front of it and two matching tables stood on each side of the bed with spherical frosted glass lamps on top of them. By the window, a desk with a rectangular easel-like mirror served as a vanity.

Phryne picked her own clothes out of the wardrobe frequently, but as she flicked through the satin-covered hangers showcasing her outfits, she always thought of Dot. Not only of the care with which she tended to Phryne's garments, ( the maid who did so at Chateau Ondine cleaned and mended them well, yet it would be difficult to not feel spoiled after Dot's fairy hands in these matters), but also of the warmth, attention, and friendship that emanated from her friend and companion.

She sometimes regretted not writing to her as often as she could. At first, Phryne had sent general, short telegrams updating her household about the progress of their trip: ' GOT TO KARACHI STOP TOO HOT STOP', 'VIENNA STOP NERVES WRECKED BY FATHER' but once the situation had become more or less settled, the last thing she had sent had been 'IN FRANCE WITH FRIENDS STOP FAMILY IN LONDON STOP EVERYTHING WELL STOP PHRYNE'. She hoped people knew her well enough by now to understand that she wasn't the kind of person to write long missives and that 'regular' mail would take so long to get to Australia any news were bound to no longer be that pertinent. Yet, she also hoped that the fact that she had left everything set to keep the house running and the salaries paid for many months didn't make them feel that she had abandoned them somehow. Tomorrow she would say something more personal, Phryne decided, even if she was conscious of herself to not go as far as making promises.

Phryne turned her attention to the task at closest at hand.

Men would be wearing suits; ladies' attire was prone to subtleties that were supposed to be observed but that could be complicated to discern and apply. There was some level of familiarity among the members of their party, but that didn't mean throwing some odd simple thing and yet diamonds would be uncalled for.

She took out a sleeveless forest-green chiffon dress with a stylized floral print lace around the neckline and complemented it with pearl satin shoes and drop earrings with green-ish blue sapphires at their end. Nature and sophistication, she thought. That would do.

As she changed, did her hair, and put on her make-up, her gestures as organic as breathing, Phryne let her thoughts run free. She was glad she had met her mother about a year after they had last seen each other, although she had been worried by how she had found her. Money issues had taken some toll on her, but the situation with her husband seemed to have contributed even harder to the yellowish tint in her skin and the dark circles under her eyes. Phryne had made a point of bringing her father back and she had followed through with her resolution, but there were moments when she regretted having done it to avoid getting Margaret caught in that repetition once again. They might love each other, but Henry Fisher was as charming as he was manipulative and waltz or no waltz, her mother deserved much more than that.

On one night, as Henry was heavily asleep after a generous dose of his nerve tonic to cap a delicious meal of lamb medallions and cucumber salad, Phryne had called Margaret to her room and had had a frank conversation with her. That plane trip across the world had shown her that no matter how much Henry promised he had changed that hadn't exactly happened, as if could be seen by his reticence in gathering and delivering the documents the solicitor had asked for so they could proceed with the asset inventory and delineate a plan to save what they hadn't had to sell yet. They could get divorced; the title and most of the estate would still end up in his hands and he would probably run them to the ground, but Margaret had some money from her own family or if something like that was too much of a radical measure she wasn't ready to undertake, she could always move out of the Richmond House or even join her sister in Australia first. Aunt Prudence would be delighted to have her back home.

Margaret had thanked her daughter's concern, but she loved her husband, still did even after all those decades fully aware of his flaws, and would be by his side and get him in shape to sort out their financial woes. It might be difficult for Phryne to understand, but he was the love of her life and she wouldn't give up on him.

Phryne had been disappointed when she had heard this. Not exactly in her mother, there was little she could do if Margaret held on to her choice, but she was particularly disillusioned because she was nearly sure Henry would keep on going to the club and on reading the paper in the leather sofa in the library as he smoked his pipe while Margaret would invite the solicitor for tea and scour their houses and her jewellery box for things to sell if all her other efforts had been in vain and they didn't have any other chance.

Part of her had considered offering a loan, but she decided against it eventually. They were her parents and she was very sorry for what they were going through, but she hadn't moved to the other side of the world to get away from them just to return and tie money into an already complicated situation. As good as her intentions might be, it would simply add another very particular layer to such a messy context.

If she hadn't received Nola's invitation, she would have gotten out of London nevertheless, whether to the country or even Paris, even if she didn't know as many people there as she once had. In fact, only a couple of names popped into her head, but in the worst case scenario she would book herself a suite at the Ritz and stay there for as long as she wished, shopping, eating macarons, wandering around the museums, visiting the bouquinistes that dotted the margins of the Seine during the day and the sizzling clubs at night.

She took a look at the clock on the nightstand. Dinner would be served in five minutes. Well, there were cocktails to be had before, but being punctual for them was as important as being punctual for the meal itself. Phryne put the finishing touch in her red lipstick and got out of the room.

She was used to having art around, whether the Romney depicting the first Baroness still hanging in the dining room of Richmond Park, her family's Sommerset country seat, the young woman painted by Ghirlandaio in the library, the Gainsborough landscape in the sitting room at their London house or even the collection she had gathered for herself over the last years, more in tune with her less conformist taste: Klimt, Seurat, Modigliani, Margaret Preston, Nina Hamnett or Thea Proctor. Yet, she was still in awe with the art on display at Chateau Ondine. It had been hard not to be when sketches, watercolours, oils, pastels, and gouaches covered the walls of the corridors, when distinct styles decorated the different rooms. Some were reminders of the many friends the Montgomerys had had over through the years, presents they cherished both for the fondness for the people that had made them but also for showcasing the great talent they were lucky to meet, some were the result of what they had been collecting over the years just because they liked them. Colourful and monochromatic works, realistic or abstract or surrealistic depictions all complementing each other in a harmonious display, infusing that house with the energetic creativity that had brought Una and William to France.

At first sight, the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling might seem incongruous with their surroundings, but, as strange as it might sound, it felt that the juxtaposition made sense. Phryne couldn't explain it more eloquently how or why modernist paintings fitted seamlessly with 18th century contadores and streamlined centre tables and tapestries from various decades.

The circular staircase itself was adorned by a masterpiece by Pablo Picasso, painted during his stay at Chateau Ondine in 1925. The Montgomerys had met him in Montparnasse shortly after their arrival in France and they had become friends during their collaboration with the Ballet Russes. William also dabbled in painting and had volunteered to help restore the sets lost in a fire alongside Una and many of the artists that had congregated around the company. The steps were similar to the original stone ones that had once been there and the railing just a line of iron alongside the wall, but their simplicity served to highlight the mural even more.

About nine actual-sized figures were distributed through the space, in a ballet of surrealistic proportions, rendered mainly in pink, shades of blue ranging from indigo to cerulean to powder blue with touches of red, white, and brown, developed in front of windows illuminated by a moonlight rather similar to the one she'd find outside within some hours. A week had gone by since Phryne had arrived at Chateau Ondine, but she still tended to stand in front of it for long, moving up or down step by step in order to take in all the details and yet still moving on with something left to see the next time she walked by.

Dinner would be served in the terrace, as it had happened nearly every night. The weather was too good to be confined indoors.

Monsieur Duval (who acted as butler and footman and chauffeur if need be) had rolled out a cocktail cart and William was already behind it, re-organising the bottles and the utensils in the little table top.

A tall man, he had brown hair and an oval, amiable face. A patient listener and engaging conversationalist, William was usually well liked whenever he went. His small hazel eyes got even smaller when a warm smile took over his face upon the sight of Phryne.

«But for you, am I the first person to arrive? I feared I was already late», she said, approaching him after a quick glance at the table, set with a white tablecloth, white dishes, glasses so clear one could see the landscape beyond with only minimal disruption, cutlery so polished it seemed to gleam by itself, and silver candlesticks to illuminate the scene.

«Good evening», he greeted. «Fear not, Una went to the kitchen to have the entrée done and Elliott is somewhere out there drinking his cocktail. Speaking of… established or original?»

«I would never offend you by asking for something that had already been done», replied Phryne, her words making William smile again.

«If you like it, you get to name it», he said.

«Agreed.»

«Phryne!»

She turned to the woman who had called her.

Una moved graciously and making the least amount of noise possible, remains of her dancing career and consequence of her choreographer occupation probably. She was the kind of person who made everyone feel like a much cherished friend. Phryne had only met her twice, in Paris, at the Montgomerys' eccentric yet lovely apartment on the Left Bank after being brought there by Nola three years ago, but she had been received as warmly as if those meetings had taken place many times and this invitation hadn't stemmed from the fact that Miss Murrow was already at Chateau Ondine when Phryne had finally been able to locate her. Una liked to have people at her house and her kindness and good humour had left a mark on Phryne and had made her feel completely at ease, even if she wasn't the kind of woman who got timid very easily.

«I hope you like Niçoise Salad, Phryne. I thought it would be pleasant after this hot day», she said, her steps closely followed by Pavlov's, the ruby Cavalier King Charles Spaniel her husband had given her as a gift a year ago, named first after Anna Pavlova and then because of the pun, and who sat next to her once she stopped walking.

Her red hair was bobbed and wavy and her pale skin was dotted with freckles. The emerald-coloured dress she wore made these features stand out and picked up in the flecks of green in her grey eyes.

«It does seem like a lovely idea», replied Phryne, missing Dot and Mr Butler's cooking even if Madame Leblanc's was absolutely delicious and she had gladly been pursuing new recipes she asked Una to translate from the American magazines her mistress read.

«Your cocktails, ladies», said William, presenting them with glasses a kissing his wife's cheek.

«What's this?», Una asked, looking at the dark-red drink.

«Red Grapefruit juice, gin, yellow chartreuse, grenadine, and some secrets, but the name itself is up to our guest», said William.

«It looks good, to start with», admire Phryne, before raising the glass in their direction and taking a sip.

The sound of high heels on the stone steps drew her gaze before Phryne could pronounce her verdict.

«Bonsoir» was heard in an affected tone.

«Bonsoir», replied the Montgomerys and Miss Fisher at the same time.

With her honey hair styled in soft waves around her face and wearing an aquamarine dress with a scoop neckline and drop pearl earrings, she couldn't look more like the star that she was.

Joséphine D'Aramitz (if it were her real name, something Phryne pondered on considering how easily it rolled out of one's mouth and that one had to puck their lips in three kisses to say it) moved as if she were in a permanent stage, with languid but sure gestures. In theory, her eyes might seem too small and set apart, her nose too short, and her lips too full to look well together, but if the early evening light embraced the angles of her face like that, Phryne could only imagine how resplendent she would look on screen. She hadn't had the chance to see any of her films yet.

«Alphonse is changing into something more presentable».

She had been having English and diction classes so she wouldn't miss her spot in Hollywood because she didn't know the language, now that talking pictures were starting to get more popular. Her grammar was perfect and her accent had been moulded into something mysterious and sophisticated that made her words seem like they were part of a screenplay instead of the update of her boyfriend's whereabouts.

«He may take his time. Nola, Philip, and Caroline aren't here either», informed Una. «Would you like a cocktail?»

«Je l'aimerai beacoup», replied Joséphine with a faint smile, looking squarely at William. Despite her effort to speak English, she still peppered her speech with French.

«D'accord», he said, leaving to the cart. English had been tacitly adopted as the lingua franca at Chateau Ondine, especially because only two out of nine people were French, but it was difficult not to drop words in that language from now and then either.

Elliott came up from the direction of the wooden stairs that lead to the rocky beach, put the empty glass on the cart and signalled William to count him in for the next round.

«The sea is very calm tonight», he said, retrieving a golden case from inside his dinner jacket, opening it and turning it to the other people nearby, even if he knew who would pick a cigarette. Joséphine took one and put it in the small holder she got from her beaded purse, but no one else accepted his offer.

«It's looking very tempting, in fact, for a midnight swim», he continued, the orange flame coming from a silver lighter dangling in front of his features as he put it to Joséphine's cigarette and then to his.

«So, is there a name at last?», William asked, handing Elliott a gin rickey and presenting Joséphine with a cocktail like the one he had made for Phryne and Una.

«Midnight Swim sounds rather appealing, but I'm afraid I have to credit Elliott with the idea», Phryne said.

«If I weren't in such good mood, I might say it's unfair that he gets to name nearly all my cocktails», William said, applying a good-hearted tap on Elliott's back.

«I would feel honoured instead of offended if I were you. I taste many drinks in many places and yet I always come back to yours, even if they are nothing more than a colourful and alcoholic water sometimes».

William laughed, but Phryne noticed that it didn't happen as promptly as it usually did and that it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Elliott's clothes and hair showed no sign of disarray and he appeared rather clear-eyed in the early twilight glow, but she wondered how many gin rickeys by the water had he enjoyed already. She knew him well enough to be aware that he wouldn't be that cutting towards a friend unless he had been deeply offended or if alcohol had been involved.

«All this for me? You surely know how to make a woman feel appreciated», Nola said, coming down the stairs, even if she was followed by the two people they had been waiting for to start dinner.

Everybody laughed, easy again now that her words had pierced through the awkward silence that had suddenly risen in the wake of the brief but tense exchange between Elliott and William.

«Nothing but the best for our friends», Una said, resuming her duties as hostess . «But maybe we're honouring Phryne, the latest person to join us instead, Nola».

«I wouldn't mind sharing the honour», replied Nola.

She was wearing a brick-coloured dress that tied at the hip with a quality rhinestone clip and that swung around her ankles as she walked.

The couple walking behind Nola were dressed in a more sombre yet extremely sophisticated way, of course, even if, alongside Alphonse and Joséphine, they were younger than most members of the party.

He was in his mid-thirties and she was some years younger. Philip and Caroline Van Asten had the elegant bearing of those people confident in their place in the world and certain of the story conveyed in one's name, something that seemed to whiff off particularly from him. All men were well groomed, but he seemed to strive to be even more polished than them; his dark hair appeared to have been parted in the particular spot measured by a ruler, his bowtie was exactly centred with his nose, chin, and throat. His grey eyes hovered over people with a particular attention, as if he was trying to ascertain what had brought them there. Due to her light brown hair, slightly upturned nose and earnest brown eyes, Caroline could look rather dainty, but Phryne believed that something more was simmering under that dignified and collected veneer and she gave off a genuine warmth that went over her shyness. She was wearing a deep purple dress that while extremely becoming stood out from the rest by being rendered in a delicate lamé lace over a silk slip and a small capelet covered her shoulders.

William took up his task of not leaving any hand empty of a cocktail and quickly shuttled off a 'Midnight Swim' to Nola, a Kir Royal to Caroline, and a 'Sidecar' to Philip without asking any questions. His choices would not be contested; he knew the first wouldn't mind trying something new, the second had shared that it was her favourite cocktail, and the latter asked always for the same even if he didn't seem to particularly enjoy it. After all these years, it was still very strange for William to have a former stepson only fourteen years his junior. Given the tumultuous way their relationship had taken from the start and that all his efforts to bond with Philip seemed to have been met with reservations when he tried to go beyond small talk, he had abandoned any hope that they might be friends someday, including after Philip's mother had died, but he kept inviting him over out of politeness and the promise he had made to Adeline that he would treat her son well and Philip kept coming to France for some reason William couldn't figure out.

Crickets filled the air with their metallic sound as the party shaped itself into little groups. It felt somewhat inevitable, even if they all got along well enough. Nola, Phryne, and Elliott clustered near the balustrade. Una, Caroline, and Joséphine sat down in chairs pulled away from the table, chatting in English about the scripts that had come in the post that afternoon, while Philip and William exchanged vague news from America, two lines at the time as if it were some sort of odd game. Phryne wondered how they fed it since William received a batch of New York Times issues each month. Montgomery seemed to have ran out of platitudes though because after listening to Philip compare how many dollars and pounds were worth and how the current economic conjecture had forced some of his clients at the bank to sell significant assets, he said:

«How long will Alphonse need more? Someone could think that I had asked him to paint the whole house instead of a wall!»

Alphonse Pernot might not be a household name yet as the authors of many of the artworks that decorated Chateau Ondine, but William seemed to see in promise enough to commission a mural in the last vacant guest room. He had started the previous summer, paused during the following winter while everybody moved to Paris and he devoted himself to other pursuits in order to cement his reputation. Not many details were known about this work. Only William was allowed to see it and even those visits had to be set by Alphonse; He wanted it to be as much as a surprise as it could. Phryne thought he might be setting himself to disappointment even considering the Montgomery's embrace of new styles and ideas, but artists were creatures of fickle egos and it wasn't exactly her place to say anything so she kept unexpectedly quiet.

William was taking a look at his wristwatch when the painter came down the stairs and joined them in the terrace.

«Je suis désolé pour mon retard. It seemed liked I couldn't put the brush down even if I knew I should», he said, in an English more accented than his girlfriend's.

He had short dark red hair that hadn't been combed with pomade but that was neater than how it usually looked during the day, when he left the wind ruffled it at will. He reminded Phryne of a Pre-Raphaelite painting if they had featured more men instead of an array of Ophelias, medieval themes, and mythical beings: a beautifully shaped face whose bones seemed delicate yet sharp, with salient cheekbones and a tight jawline. Somewhat feminine lips, more of a poet than a painters', and very light blue eyes.

No wonder Joséphine and Alphonse were such an item in a circle with so many iconic couples. They were successful and beautiful on their own, but together they also looked glamorous and rather mysterious, which was probably even better than the other two previous qualities. Keeping everyone guessing was quite an effective way to get eyes on them, people talking and their names on the right lips. Art, hedonism, and money were important but fame and – they were sure – immortality were even better.

«I appreciate the dedication, but if I paid you by the hour, I might be bankrupt by now and there would not be a wall to paint the mural on because I had had to sell the house», said William, jokingly. He had accompanied many painters over the years and had a little artistic experience himself, so he was fully aware that art could have the strangest schedules.

«I am sorry I made you wait», Alphonse said again, promptly sitting at the chair he took every night.

«Le diner peut commencer, M. Duval», Una told the butler in her French learnt at Miss Porter's School and polished over the past eight years.

Monsieur Duval, a slightly stout man in his mid-sixties with round features, light brown hair, and the warm manner of a welcoming grandfather, bowed his head slightly and went inside, reappearing soon with Mathilde as they served the hors d'oevres; devilled eggs, Crab Stuffed Mushrooms with Parmesan, and olive crostini preceded the Salade Niçoise that had been promised.

Above their easy and pleasant conversation, the sky was going from azure to a very particular grey-ish blue, cut by a sheaf of golden sunlight in the horizon and then to a deeper blue as light decreased and the night darkened, a change mirrored on the sea.

The people around the table seemed to have been caught by that spell and stopped talking for a while, contemplating the landscape. They lived fast and took pride in that, still tremendously aware of how lucky they were by having the chance to do so, but maybe that was also why they sat there watching the sunset, almost like a sort of worship ritual no one had decided upon but that had simply happened.

Personally, Phryne found painting sunsets and writing about them a bit cliché, but she could understand why some of the artists that had stayed there over the years had given in and committed them to canvas exhibited around the house.

«Any plans?», asked Nola after the dessert plates had been cleared without any trace of the lemon sorbet served left. The sensation of having all the time in the world could seem contradictorily stifling sometimes so no one spoke for a second.

«I would be up for some bridge, if anyone would like to join me», suggested Una, a proposition taken by Nola, Phryne, and Caroline.

«I will sit out this time and wait for the next game. After all, I ran everyone down to the ground three nights ago», Joséphine said in a genuinely playful tone and a smile bending her lips.

«How kind of you!», replied Nola in an equally light tone, good-heartily teasing her and with a smirk.

Joséphine laughed, completely unbothered by Nola's words, amused even, Phryne would say, which surprised her.

And so a table was brought outside and placed where the lanterns that illuminated the house would pour over it as well.

Phryne was enjoying a celebratory glass of champagne after having won the first round of bridge and talking with Caroline about the Royal Exhibition Building in Melbourne. Mrs Van Asten, Miss Besselink then, had visited Australia when she was 18, in a sort of World Grand Tour before her debut, and longed to be back someday and visit the country at her leisure, but it hadn't happened yet. Philip was always so busy and she wouldn't go by herself, not for now, at least, she said with an unexpected knowing smile.

For a while, William and Philip stayed at the dinner table smoking cigars and Elliott another cigarette, but maybe to avoid falling into the odd news game of before, the homeowner got up from his chair.

«I received my monthly shipment of American jazz records today. I think it may liven things up a little, even if it's not the same as having Fletcher Henderson and his band here with us. It will have to make do. »

An encouraging buzz rose from the bridge table, Elliott nodded while sipping the remaining whiskey in his glass, a puff of smoke came from Philip's seat and the gramophone was brought from the house with a parcel wrapped in brown paper with cord strings loosely tied around it carried on top of the dark case.

William served a round of Chartreuse as digestif and unpacked and set the records in a particular pile after choosing the order in which they would be played. They would have music enough to last through the night, fuelled by good conversation, company, and games, whether cards or even charades, able to enjoy themselves without the restraints of having neighbours they could disturb.


A/n: And here it is at last. *throws confetti* I am sorry it took nearly a year for this story to see the light of day even if it is adapted from a plot I wrote for class some years ago , but I hope you can forgive me and be apeased by the fact that I'm truly glad I can share it with you. After all, most writers do write for an audience and I have to confess I'm among this group and I couldn't ask for a better audience than the MFMM fandom.

Here goes the usual disclaimer about how I hope I haven't messed up historical details very much but if I did I hope it doesn't impair any possible enjoyment you may derive from this story. It was probably done out of ignorance so I am open to hear your feedback in case I destroyed something you're most knowleageable of than me.

There are some things I'd like to address though:

I tempered with MFMM's timeline so Phryne wouldn't arrive at the French Riviera too close to the Great Depression, as if it would have happened if she had left Melbourne on the beginning of September. This doesn't bring any significant changes to anything whether in the story or in canon as far as I can say, but I thought best to let you know.

I could have written a story which weaved Phryne's Riviera trip with famous people's whereabouts and some do come up, but I'm quite particular about getting things right and making sure everything lined up would have basically eaten up this story before it even existed because I'd be too obsessed with that. So I've loosely based some of my characters in real people, like Una and William Montgomery, who are inspired by Sara and Gerald Murphy. I'm probably preaching to the choir, but the Murphys were rich American expatriates who were a fixture in Paris' artistic social scene in the 20s and were connected to many artists from the time, like F. Scott Fitzgerald, Picasso, Jean Cocteau, Dorothy Parker, Archibald MacLeish, Cole Porter or Igor Stravinsky, for instance. They were crucial for the change in how the Riviera was experienced as a summer resort; before, it was only a fashionable wintering spot. The rich and famous preferred Deauville, for example, for the hot months. They did convince the Hotel du Cap to remain open during Summer in 1923, eventually purchased their own villa in Cap d'Antibes, Villa America, and introduced sunbathing on the beach and swimming as a fashionable thing to do. Nicole and Dick Diver in Tender Is The Night were loosely based on them first (on Scott himself and Zelda as the novel progressed then), which was kind of cruel from Fitzgerald towards such good friends as they were throughout his life though. I hope I've been kinder.

I find them very fascinating and have borrowed some details from their lives to Una and William's, namely their hospitality and friendships with artists and their time on the French Riviera, their collaboration in restoring deteriorated sets from the Ballets Russes - where they met Picasso -, the monthly shipments of American jazz records received in France, Gerald's cocktail skills as well. There are many articles and books written about the Murphys, but Calvin Thomkins' classic piece «Living Well is The Best Revenge» published on The New Yorker in 1962 and that you can find online is a good place to start, added by the fact that the Murphy's had lived through a lot since their times in the Riviera, including the death of two of their children. The quote I used for the epigraph is from a letter Gerald wrote in the 60s and mentioned how sometimes he and Sara went through their souveniers from the 20s and felt towards them in light of what had come after.

Elliott Murrow is loosely based on F. Scott Fitzgerald (surprising no one who read my profile) but Nola, Joséphine, Alphonse, Caroline, and Philip weren't inspired by no one in particular.

The mural on Chateau Ondine's staircase takes influence from Picasso's « Three Dancers», painted in 1925.

I have no idea if William's cocktail would be any good. I know next to nothing about them and the one described came after playing with randomcockatails dot com (writing it this way so ff net won't be mad at me and erase this), but feel free to try it and let me know. Cheers!

Unlike Undercover at The Elvsworth Club, which was updated with no particular schedule and gaps between chapters because I was posting as I wrote, this story is fully written already. Given this, I'm planning on posting a new chapter every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday ultil I run out of them. I can't pinpoint a particular hour though since my own times are hard to predict. I hope this isn't too bothersome.

Thank you for reading this novel-like note. I deeply appreciate it and apologise for its length but I hope you found it useful somehow. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and enjoy what's coming next. Feel free to send me your feedback. I'd love to know what you think. Thanks in advance.